Like A Hand on A Flame
by In His Eyes
Summary: A collection of scenes that detail Erik's and Christine's time together. Leroux based.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I have nothing clever to put here, so I'll just say that I don't own PotO.

The fire was dancing.

Orange flames swayed over charred wood, continually rising and relenting. Christine followed the patterns with her eyes. It reminded her of the lapping water of Lake Averne, and the way her skirt tossed about when she moved.

"Are you enjoying the warmth?"

Christine looked up, and the light hit her bare neck. "Yes, thank you."

For a moment she stared at him. His eyes shone like a reflection of the blaze. But, no. His eyes were mellower than a heated orange, or even a vibrant yellow, she decided. They were an amber color, like the worn gold on her ring finger.

"Erik, what color were your mother's eyes?"

The figure beside her stiffened. "My mother's?" he repeated. "Erik… Erik was never allowed to look at his mother very much. But Erik did see, when his mask sheltered him, that her eyes were perhaps blue. Yes, Erik is sure of it. Her eyes were blue."

"Your eyes are not blue," Christine said.

"No," Erik answered, bitterness beginning to rise in his voice. "Erik inherited nothing so beautiful as blue eyes from his mother."

"Blue eyes are very common." Christine turned her gaze back to the fire. _Her_ eyes were blue. "I—" She thought for a moment, before turning her head back to him. "I think your eyes are distinctive. They're how I know you in the darkness. And they make me think of palaces dressed in gold, or the vibrant strings on my father's violin." Her voice became quieter. "They're _more_ beautiful than blue eyes, when you let them be shown."

Silence followed her confession. Little grains of fire spit from the wood, and landed among the ash. "You are very kind to Erik, Christine. Erik has never known such benevolence." The confusion and unsurity in his voice betrayed the grateful statement. He sounded as though he wasn't sure if she was mocking him.

A great compassion stirred within Christine. She remembered the innumerable times that she had received compliments. "What a lovely face," or "So charming," were often the comments she gained from listeners as she sang beside her father. And then there was Erik, who had lavished her in his unrelenting speeches like a man of faith reciting scripture. What had she ever given him in return? What had anyone ever given him?

Christine stood. She took one step, and let her outstretched hand graze the bit of mask below Erik's eyes. He trembled, and watched her movements like a child so used to being slapped rather than caressed that he cowered a little at her touch.

"Erik," she said, her face drawn in sincere compassion, "may I remove your mask?"

_"Why?"_ he breathed, searching her eyes.

"Let me show you." Christine reached around his head for the ties, but he jerked back a little, and she stopped. "Erik, please don't be afraid of me."

The man—not a phantom, or even an angel—shut his eyes against her pleas. Wearily, he spoke, "You may remove Erik's mask, if that is your wish. I cannot deny you."

He felt the ties loosen, and though she had been careful not to touch him, he trembled at her nearness. She had never willingly placed herself this close to him before. Cringing, with the breath in his throat lodged like the boulder that held the damn, she removed the mask from his face.

"There," she whispered, her face curiously close to his. "Now I can see your eyes."

Erik released all of his tension in one short sob. He bowed his head, tears flowing everywhere over his deformed features. "My poor Erik," Christine soothed. When he made no motion to end his tears, Christine turned from him. She held the mask a little above the floor, so that fire shone through the eye holes.

Christine's lips parted as a revelation flooded through her. Swiftly, she tossed the mask into the fireplace, watching with Erik as the ebony fabric curled and faded into the roaring orange. Shocked, Erik asked, "What do you mean by this?"

Christine looked at him then; at his gruesome, bony flesh, overlapped by dark scars and visible veins. His lips were thin and they wandered upward on one side; he had no eyebrows. She concentrated on his eyes.

"Only that I wish you not wear your masks anymore. You told me that anyone can get used to anything, if only they're willing to try. I want to try, Erik."

"You….you want to try…" Erik's eyes were wide as he repeated her words.

She nodded, and he fell to his knees, bringing the hem of her skirt to his malformed lips. "Oh, Christine," he whispered. "Christine, Christine…"

She stood still, and didn't cringe when he told her how greatly he loved her.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you for reviewing! You guys are always so nice and supportive.

"Here I am, Erik. I'm ready. You're the one who's late, my friend."

The singing continued, soaked in by the walls and thrust out in warm and vibrant echoes. She stood as his voice drew nearer; her heart raced, captivated by the sound, and her lips became fuller and more red. She smiled, her mouth lit by wonder.

The mirror opened, and she felt the sting of the icy cellar air. Erik raised his red cape to shelter her from the initial blast, and she relaxed gratefully. His formidable costume, above all his mask of death, loomed over her. The face looked as though it were made of actual human bone, stripped so completely of flesh, and embellished with a darkness that reminded her of ash spread over a graveyard.

"You look fearsome," she commented, her eyes turned to his cape.

"Do you think it a fitting costume, then? Or rather too little like a costume?" Christine couldn't tell whether his questions were playful or challenging. She shrugged lightly.

"I do not prefer you in this guise," she answered.

He held out his arm then, as he usually did, in order to guide her safely through the passageways. But she hesitated, peaking around to the golden letters embroidered on his cape. "You are the Red Death passing by," she recited. "I would think it unwise to touch you."

When he stiffened, Christine had to press her lips together to keep from smiling. But he answered calmly, "I doubt very much that even the Red Death could bear to harm an angel such as you."

Her lips parted, and she stared up at him, humbled by his sincerity. Perhaps he had only spoken so to counter her attempt at taking away their only contact, but she knew better; it was love that drove every sentiment.

"Then I give him my arm freely," she answered with a smile.

It could have been the cellar breeze, but she thought she heard him breathe out in shaky relief.

They walked in silence, until she said, "I saw you far off, surrounded by a group of artists. They praised you as you passed by. Did you do nothing but parade your costume?"

He turned his frightful mask to her, and she believed the skin above his eyes was raised. "It was an _opera ball_, my dear. What more did you expect me accomplish?"

"You did not dance at all," was her simple reply.

"I had no partner, nor did I wish for one." His voice had become suddenly cold, but she refused to let him continue in his spiral of anguish. So often one unassuming line would set him off, and so often she did not trouble herself to bring him back to his senses; sometimes she did not know how.

"I had no partner, but I would have liked one. The music was so nice…"

He clenched the fist at his side. "Yes, no doubt you would have liked for a young, handsome partner. A vicomte, perhaps."

Christine had to steady her heart; guilt and fear quickened in her core, but she forced herself to recover. "I was speaking of you, Erik," she explained. When he did not reply, she continued. "I—I was hoping to dance with you." Still, he didn't speak. With eyes downcast, she said, "I am sorry; my requests are silly."

"No," he spoke suddenly, and his voice was quiet and serious. "You…you would have danced with me?"

"Oh, Erik," Christine whispered. Sympathy fell over her features like dawn rising on her through a windowsill. "I would have been happy to dance with you."

Erik stopped, and she came to a halt with him. "What about now?" he asked. "Erik will make the music you desire. Would you dance with Erik now?"

"I…" Christine looked around; the bottom of her luminescent gown dragged on the dirty cellar floor, as did the latter half of his crimson cape. The dark and confined space was hardly a place for dancing. She was confused, then, as to why she did not mind. "That would be fine, Erik."

Erik's gloved hand slipped into her silky one. He placed a chaste hand on her waist, and moved in slow, graceful circles with her. Christine's eyes widened when she heard the beautiful melody that sprang like a murmur from his parted lips.

_Now in the dark night every noise is silenced, _

_my beating heart is lulled in this embrace and stilled. _

_Let war thunder and the world be engulfed _

_if after infinite wrath comes this infinite love!_

It was Othello's duet with Desdemona—a man voicing his unbridled joy at being loved.

Christine listened in awe, and when he trembled greatly, she held him tighter.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I know this is _really_ soon to be updating, but I've already got the whole story completed, and since this is the first day since I first posted that has let me upload anything (stupid document manager wouldn't work...), I'm anxious to just get the whole thing up. Thank you guys again SO much for the reviews! You're all so nice!!

Jungle Julia - I could just hug you! Thank you for all the sweet comments. And to answer your questions, the next chapter will be the last, and will definately end differently than Leroux.

Erik'sangel527 - Thank you! I am SO in love with the two stories of yours I've read so, so it's unbelievably awsome to get reviews from you!

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For the first time, Christine was kneeling at Erik's feet, sobbing uncontrollably through the shouts in the background and the sound of rushing water. Erik remained calm, with his arms crossed casually over his chest. "Erik, please!" Christine begged, her hands braced on his dress shoes. "Please, don't let them die! I'm begging you, Erik, I—"

"I will do what you ask, Christine, but you know what you must do in return. The scorpion has not moved from its place on the little table." Oh, how calm his voice was! Like the tranquil water that barely heaves below the raging storm.

She got to her feet, then, and rushed over to the ebony box. She reached inside and found the bronze statue, giving the latter half one turn. Christine brought her desperate blue eyes up to meet his, and proclaimed, "I have turned the scorpion, Erik. I am yours."

Erik stood still, his figure more tense than it had been. "You swear this, Christine?" he asked skeptically.

"I swear on my eternal salvation, I will be your living bride."

His eyes widened, and she saw that his hands shook. Nodding, he went to the door of the torture chamber; when he returned, the sound of draining water had been a relief for nearly a minute, and he was dragging a body with him.

Christine nearly called out the name of her former fiancé, but she bit her tongue to still the impulse. Instead she sat quietly, and listened to his slow breathing while Erik carried in the Persian. While the two men recuperated in their unconscious states, Erik walked the distance of his sitting room over to her.

His amber eyes were lit with an unhinged excitement, and his arms trembled as he lifted them towards her. He drew back, however, upon seeing her expression. The enthusiasm dulled in his face, and he warned, "Remember, you swore on your salvation to be my living bride. You will not kill yourself?"

Christine shook her head, but refused to meet his eyes.

"I—I will bring them aboveground."

When he returned, he saw that Christine had not moved from her place in the corner chair. There was a book on her lap, and when she saw him she shut the pages and laid it on the table beside her. He kneeled before her, his head turned up like a puppy craving attention. Unsure of what to say to his wife, he remarked:

"You were reading."

"I was thinking," she replied, her voice small, like a pebble pleading with the sea that overtakes it.

"It is not always good to think too much on matters," he advised. "We can work ourselves into a frenzy that way."

How strange his words seemed! Christine replied, "I suppose, Erik."

"Oh, I wish you would not act in such sadness. We are alone now, and no one will find us until we are properly wed, and then no one would dare to take away _my living wife_." He said those last words with such pride, such utter happiness, that Christine felt a little of her misery dissipating. How could she curse him when he loved her so well?

"Oh, Christine! You will be happy, so happy! As my wife, I will do anything for you. I will make you as happy as you have made Erik. I swear it, and would on my salvation, except I have forfeit that heavenly reward. No, none such as me would be allowed into heaven now. Oh, but you are my heaven, Christine! And you will live like an angel, with anything you wish for within reach. Would that please you? You will see later, you will see just how wonderful our lives will be! Christine—" He choked on her name then, and his torrent of words came to an end. "Christine, please—do not kill yourself. Erik could not bear it if you took your life. I could not bear it…"

Tears were streaming down his face now. Christine guessed he must have seen her pitiful expression. In sudden sympathy, she said fervently, "Erik—Erik, I—" But he only sobbed harder, the force of his emotions wracking his entire body.

As she watched his pathetic display, her hand rising off the arm of the chair to comfort him, Christine recalled their conversation about living wives. _"Living bride?"_ she had asked in confusion. They had been speaking on the significance of her ring. _"What other type of bride is there, for a man to wed?"_

"_No other, except for Erik. Erik would surely have a dead wife."_

"_You cannot really mean dead…?"_

"_Oh, if only I did not! But my wife would be quite unhappy. She would never love me, you see, and so her face would become gaunt and sad, and she would become so quiet, never speaking to me, and she would look the very picture of a dead wife before she killed herself." _Then, quickly, he interjected, _"Oh, but I would try with all my being to make her content, never doubt that! I would entertain all through the week, and buy her everything she could want; she would never believe I do not love her."_

"_No…I don't believe she would."_

Christine realized that she was crying, as well. Poor Erik! He was so terrified that just the thought of being near him was enough to make her kill herself. And that was what he had expected all his life. He had expected never to be loved, and to have those he loved not only terrified of him, but killing themselves just to be rid of him.

Did she want to be rid of him? She would never kill herself over her fate, that seemed ridiculous to her now, but did she want to be rid of him at all? Looking down on him, she saw the way he had looked in the cellar passageways, the way his imposing figure had stared at her with adoration and unbelief as they danced to his voice. She remembered every lonely day her angel of music had brightened. She remembered stripping him of his mask, and the way he had crawled to her in the aftermath of that storm.

"Oh, my poor, unhappy Erik!"

Erik lifted his head, and caught the warm tears that fell glistening from her cheeks. They flowed over his deformed features, and he welcomed them as they seeped into his mouth. The tears were hers, and she was giving them to him.

Christine lowered her head, and pressed her shaking lips to his forehead. This time she could not concentrate on his eyes, but she didn't care anymore. The feeling that shot through her then was more powerful than it had ever been, and she finally recognized it. It was what she had felt after their dance, when the music had ended and his eyes were bearing down on her. It was what she felt at the end of a duet with him, when they were out of breath and lost in the other. She had wanted this. All along, she wanted this nearness, wanted to kiss him.

Her lips traveled over his face, brushing gently against the wet, skeletal features. He gasped at first, and then leaned into her touch with all the uncertainty of a small child receiving something beautiful and foreign. She stopped at the corner of his mouth, not quite touching his lips. "I will be your living wife," she promised through her tears. A small smile held up her mouth. "I will sing for you, and talk with you, and kiss you whenever you like. I will love you, Erik. I love you now."

He brought his cringing form slowly upward, and his glowing eyes shook as they watched her expression. "Christine! Can you mean it? Can you love Erik?"

"I do love you."

He lowered himself to the ground and grabbed at the hem of her skirt. "Angel…angel, you're an angel…" he murmured, still trembling greatly. His eyes were tightly shut.

"Oh, Erik. Stand, my husband."

He brought himself to his knees, and she lifted herself from her chair, and fell into his arms.


End file.
